


A Feather For Each Wind That Blows

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson negotiate their relationship. With a new case to focus on, jealousy rears its head.  Sequel to 'A Trifling Matter'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been one month since the events recorded in my private diaries under the fanciful title of ‘A Trifling Matter’. Those events which I would consider to be quite the most transformative of my life thus far, germinating from my own unwitting blindness in matters of the heart, consistently misconstruing the singular behaviour of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. If it had not been for our Surrey adventure at the derelict home of the nebulous Augusta Burroughs, then I wonder if fate would still have deigned to push Holmes and I together? Perhaps. Catalysts have a tendency to thrust even the most unprepared cogs and gears into forward motion.

The middle of April 1886, therefore, was propitious on all fronts. My relationship with Holmes, although still in its early stages, was blissful indeed. Having lived together for five years I understood my friend well enough not to overcrowd him with my company or to press attention unless he was of the inclination to reciprocate. I gave him the space he required as well as my shoulder of friendship, and he in return extended his gratitude, shy affection, and quiet commitment. It was not in his way to make the first move; so engrained was his restraint that I believed it might yet take a while before he felt fully relaxed within his new skin. We retained our own bedrooms for reasons of safety, but most nights would find either one of us at the other’s chamber once the house was quiet; if not to love, then simply to sleep, enfolded together. We were discreet by necessity; still I think that Mycroft’s words echoed around us, disapproving, portentous.

Our day-to-day routine continued with little deviation.

One noon-time, Holmes and I were going about our usual business: he by re-sorting and re-labelling his stocks of chemicals - which numbered a great many, in various jars, bottles and vials - and I at my desk with my writing and research. When Mrs. Hudson delivered a telegram envelope, therefore, we barely took notice until some considerable time later upon pause for refreshment.

Holmes tore open the envelope. “I say, Watson, who do you imagine it is from?” he asked, chuckling, as he scanned the contents. “It is from brother Mycroft! And with a mystery of his own, no less. Well, rather, an acquaintance of his.”

“Is that so?” I said, dubiously. My previous and so far only encounter with Mycroft Holmes had been of a somewhat mixed confliction. I did not doubt his massive intellect, or the many characteristic similarities - some good and some not so - which he shared with his younger brother. But I was wary of his power and suspicious of his motives, and I could not say that I wholeheartedly trusted the man, no matter his relation to my companion.

“It is indeed so,” answered Holmes, “and he will be visiting us at 3 o’clock today, along with the aforementioned acquaintance.” He glanced at his watch. “Hmm, that leaves us barely an hour. I may say ‘acquaintance’ rather than ‘friend’, for I am doubtful that Mycroft retains many of the latter, but would presume an unhealthy glut of the former.”

“We perhaps should tidy the place a little, then?” I wondered, looking around in some consternation at the stacks of paper and ephemera which lay across every available surface. We were not of the inclination to entertain very frequently, so despite Mrs. Hudson’s best housekeeping efforts our possessions had a remarkable tendency to creep unchecked into armchairs, across tables, and eventually onto the carpet itself. The occasion of a client’s visit or a friend’s impromptu call would thus usually result in a frenetic moment of shuffling, sorting and concealing.

“Well, we might, I suppose,” said Holmes, sounding weary at the very idea. He picked up a stack of books from his chair by the fireplace and deposited them into a corner by the window. “There. Will that do, Watson?”

“I was thinking of something perhaps a little more vigorous than that, but you are on the right track, Holmes,” I replied.

By half-past two we had regained most of our stolen floor space, and threw ourselves side by side onto the sofa.

“That was too much effort indeed for the sake of my brother and his crony,” declared Holmes, smiling all the same.

I wound an arm around him. “You did rather well for a man who abhors to tidy. Picking up a dust cloth from time to time might be the making of you,” I teased.

“The making or the breaking, I wonder,” he mused, his lips tickling my ear.

“So what did Mycroft have to say in his telegram?” I asked, as much to deflect my ardour as to uncover the reason behind the message.

“He said very little - as is typical of him. We shall find out more when he arrives. Is that a hansom outside already, Watson? He is appallingly early, if that is the case.”

It was indeed Mycroft Holmes, and from the window I observed that he was accompanied by a short, stocky gentleman dressed in black. They disappeared through the front door of 221B, and we heard Mrs. Hudson’s welcome as she showed them the way up to our rooms.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson, good afternoon to you both,” said Mycroft briskly, as he entered our sitting-room for only the second time. “I am glad to find you here - I received no reply to my telegram. I do hope that you don’t treat all of your clients in such a fashion. We are regrettably early, as I find I have a pressing engagement elsewhere later today. May I introduce Mr. Thomas Dunphy, the gentleman who is in the greatest need of your help on this day?”

He moved aside to let his companion move further into the room. Thomas Dunphy was a man of middle age, and although diminutive carried with him a well worn air of authority. His eyes were dark and sharp, his chin was determinedly square; he held himself proudly as he nodded first to Holmes and then myself. I discerned, however, an acute anguish in the twist of his mouth, and speculated as to the nature of his trouble. An affaire de coeur, or a blackmail, I decided. My friend ushered Mycroft Holmes and our new client to the sofa, whereupon he sat in his customary chair by the fireplace, and I hastened to my spot at the table for note-taking.

“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice,” said Mr. Dunphy, now all of a fidget as he nervously smoothed his moustache and scratched at his whiskers. “I trust we have not put either of you to any inconvenience?”

“None whatsoever,” said Holmes, eyeing the agitated gentleman with some interest. “I am grateful to my brother Mycroft for bringing you here. Please tell us what your trouble might be, and I assure you that we will do our best to assist you.”

Mr. Dunphy sat forward, took a deep breath, and set forth upon his tale.

“Mr. Holmes, I am a fairly well-to-do man, I hold a senior position at the Capital and Counties Bank here in town. I am married, and my wife-” here he paused for a second, “my wife and I live in a very nicely appointed house in Norgrave Gardens. We have been married not quite a year - but very happily, I should like to add. And now it has come to this, when my wife has vanished - vanished, Mr. Holmes - without leaving any note or word as to where she has gone.” The gentleman took breath and stared at my friend, who was reclining in his chair with his eyes half-closed, listening intently.

“Do continue, Mr. Dunphy,” said Holmes. “More detail, I beg of you. Exactly when, and what time of day did your wife depart, what did she take with her, had she been acting strangely in the days prior to her leaving, etcetera?”

“It is the 16th today - Catherine left on the 14th, in the middle of the night, Mr. Holmes. We sleep in separate rooms, so I did not hear her leave, and I sleep very soundly as a rule in any case. When I went to her room at 7 o’clock the next morning I found her bed unmade, but she appeared to have dressed, and her small suitcase was missing. I do not know what she might have packed, I am not familiar with her wardrobe or her personal items.”

“Which floor is your wife’s bedroom on?” Holmes enquired.

“It is on the first floor, as is mine. Our rooms do not adjoin, but they are quite close. We had not argued, and Catherine had not been behaving out of the ordinary, so I cannot explain the situation, Mr. Holmes.”

“Did you see anything unusual in the room, an item or a piece of furniture out of place, for example?”

“No, there was nothing of that nature, everything was how it should normally be. Except for one small thing, Mr. Holmes. I doubt that it is of any significance.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” asked Holmes, leaning forward slightly in attention.

“On the carpet, by the side of the bed, Mr. Holmes. I found a long black feather.”

“A feather! From one of your wife’s hats, no doubt?”

“I have never seen my wife in such a hat, Mr. Holmes. All her hats are quite plain, as far I can recall.”

“From a gown, then, or a room decoration?”

“There is nothing of that nature in her room.”

“Then that is curious indeed, Mr. Dunphy,” said my friend. “I suppose that you have contacted all her relatives and friends, as well as your own, in the event that she may have ended up with one of them?”

“I have followed every trail that I can think of, but with no luck. It is as though she has simply vanished into thin air. We have few surviving relatives, and fewer still that live in this country.”

“In that case, I should like to visit your house and examine the room for myself, if I may. Will you be at home tomorrow?”

“Yes, I will be there. Could I expect you at 9am?”

“That will be fine. Thank you, yes, I will have one of your cards.” Holmes tucked our visitor’s calling card into his pocket, and moved to the door. “Mycroft, are you leaving too, or would you care to stay?”

The elder Holmes had risen and was reaching for his cane. “I have an appointment, Sherlock, alas I cannot stay. I am grateful nonetheless for having made it through fifteen minutes in your home without being catapulted out of my seat by someone barging in through the door as though all the hounds of hell were on his tail. I will speak to you later, dear brother, good afternoon. And to you, Doctor.”

The two men took their leave, and we watched from the window as the hansom turned and rattled its way back down the street. Holmes took the card from his pocket and examined it once again.

“This might be an interesting case, Watson, will you come?”

“Of course I will, Holmes, you can rely on it.”

“Tomorrow, then, at 9am,” said he, with a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

Early morning. Dawn? Light just beginning to push at the curtain over the window. Next to me I can feel a warm body. Holmes is still sleeping, softly; I hear his steady breathing, can see the rise and fall of his chest as I turn to face him. I rest my hand gently upon his hip, smooth it down over the thin cotton of his nightshirt. His breath catches a little; not enough to wake. I inch across until his side is pressed unwittingly to my chest. I mouth his bare shoulder where the nightshirt has fallen open, tickle his skin with my tongue. He is warm, sweet-smelling, comforting. I want him. Too early to rouse him, but all the same. My prick is hard; I curse its impetuosity. I wonder what on earth I might do for relief. Turn onto my front and rub off against the bed sheet? I would far rather spend it on the man lying next to me.

“Holmes, are you awake?” A whisper.

He stirs, sighs, does not answer. I stroke his neck.

“Holmes.”

An eye flutters open. He looks at me. Reads me like a well-thumbed book.

“No, John, it’s too early.” Voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

I pick up my watch and squint. “It is 6 o’clock.” I kiss his clavicle. “Forgive me.” Another kiss. “Might you change your mind?”

He chuckles, twists his body, throws an arm across me. “I have been awake for all of five seconds at this ungodly hour and you are already wishing to take advantage of me. My word, you are quite ready for it.” His hand brushes against me, gauges my need; I feel myself twitch towards him. He withdraws. “I am not certain I could be of much use to you as I am.” A yawn. “This evening, perhaps, when we might take our time.”

For once I am persistent. I move my hand around to his backside; he wriggles clear of me. “No, John, stop.” I sigh. A cold bath, then, or a two minute solitary frig when he leaves my room to dress in his own chamber. We settle, and my eyes reluctantly close. I fall asleep and do not hear his quiet departure a short while later.

~~~~~~~~

By 9 o’clock we were at 3 Norgrave Gardens: a smart, spacious red-brick with well kept gardens to front and rear. The property was one of six in this particular row, and seemed to me a most tranquil idyll, far from the bustle and dust of central London. Holmes circled the grounds, examining the grass and soil intently, looking up at the windows and rattling the ground floor doors. When at last he was satisfied we entered the house, where we found its owner Mr. Thomas Dunphy awaiting us in the main entrance hall.

“I am so glad to see you both,” said he, “please do come in and make yourselves quite at home. If there is anything you need I would be happy to provide it.”

“Thank you, I think we will get straight down to it,” said Holmes. “Whereabouts is your wife’s bedroom?”

We were directed upstairs to a light, airy room with a large bay sliding door window which lead out onto a small balcony overlooking the front garden. Holmes gave the room a single sweeping glance then proceeded his inspection with the utmost detail. He ran a finger along the dressing table and examined the lifted dust; he dropped to his knees and crawled around the bed as a bloodhound, holding his lens out in front of him. Once or twice he exclaimed softly and scribbled into his pocket notebook. He examined the handle on both sides of the balcony door, and the wood close to the lock. He scanned the balcony, peering over and down into the garden and up at the roof. He opened the lady’s wardrobe and pulled out a number of dresses, scarves, hats and shoes. Finally, he sat down upon the bed and picked up the black feather from where it had been placed on the small side table. Holmes looked at it through his lens, holding it up to the light and turning it to see it the clearer.

“Hmm,” said he. “These might be deeper waters than we first suspected, Watson.”

“What have you found, Holmes?” I asked. I had followed my friend’s progress around the room with great interest, and yet was quite unable to see the conclusions he might have drawn from so little evidence. Despite the room’s size it was sparsely furnished with even fewer personal effects on display. It all seemed quite austere for a young newly-wed.

“Enough that tells me it is a police matter now,” said he. “Take a look at the small stain on the carpet at the foot of the bed. It appears quite fresh, and is blood, if I am not much mistaken.”

“Good heavens, Holmes,” I exclaimed, peering at the dark red splash which stood out clearly even against the twisting pattern of the carpet. “I wonder that Mr. Dunphy did not see that for himself.”

“He likely did not see it because he was not looking for it. He was looking for his wife, not a mark upon a rug. Well, I think we have gathered all we can from here for the moment. Let us go and find the gentleman now and inform him as to what needs to be done.”

Thomas Dunphy was much disturbed to hear of the blood stain. He agreed immediately to Holmes’s declaration that Scotland Yard be called in, and set about putting this to action. Holmes and I waited the meanwhile in the comfortable sitting-room and went over the case.

“Is it murder, do you think, Holmes?”

“I should not like to theorise before I have all the facts to hand. I am much interested in that feather, however.”

“What is so curious about the bird feather?”

“Well, to begin with, it is not a common bird. Rather it is a wing feather from a merle bronze - a Brazilian blackbird - which is notable for the shades of blue and bronze it carries on its wings and back. You recall that I am still in the middle of a monograph upon this very subject, Watson.”

“Yes, I remember, Holmes. It sounds very unusual.”

“Indeed. Quite singular. Such feathers are often used in ladies’ fashion, particularly hats, and yet our friend Mr. Dunphy declares that his wife does not possess such an elaborate wardrobe. My own inspection confirms this - the lady’s clothes are without exception subdued and plain. From who, or what, might it have come, then, I wonder.” Holmes steepled his fingers, frowning in thought.

“Did you obtain any useful information from the grounds outside?”

“Alas, I did not. There has been no rain but a brisk wind these past few days, so regrettably no opportunity of preserved shoe or boot marks in the soil. I must enquire with Mr. Dunphy if his wife made a habit of leaving her balcony door unlocked.”

“That would have been unwise of her, Holmes.”

“Yes, but the room is on an upper floor so she might not have seen cause for concern. With the brighter weather we have had of late the door may have been left slightly ajar, for the room has no other means of ventilation. Ah, here they come now,” said he, turning his head at the sound of the front door.

Thomas Dunphy entered the room, accompanied by our friend Inspector Gregson. Gregson nodded to us both.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Good morning Doctor Watson.” He glanced across to me. “It is a pleasure to see you again; it has been a few months since our last meeting. I should like to hear about this business, if you would share the details with me.”

“I should be delighted to, Gregson,” said Holmes, “come up to the room with me and I will outline what I have found up to this point.” He looked to Mr. Dunphy. “Mr. Dunphy, please could you clarify one thing for me: was the balcony door from your wife’s room usually unlocked in warmer weather?”

“I believe that was usually the case, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “As access from the garden would have been so formidable Catherine saw no harm in leaving it so.”

“Hmm, thank you,” said my friend, and he left the room with Inspector Gregson at his heels.

~~~~~~~~

Much later, back at 221B, I sat in my chair and listened as Holmes stood by the window with his violin and played Mendelssohn’s Lieder. His instrument was many things to him: for relaxation and introspection alike, there was often a problem solved after an hour or two of scraping with the bow; or he would emerge the calmer simply for having played. Occasionally he would not produce a recognisable air but rather scratch and pick at discordant notes, and I knew not to disturb him then. Today I was gladdened to hear the familiar melody, and I smiled as I watched my friend lose himself in the music. When the piece came to its end he returned the violin to its case and turned around to me.

“That is better,” said he, “my head was quite fogged, but it feels clearer now.”

“Come and sit with me, Holmes,” I invited, “we have not had much opportunity to speak with one another today.”

Holmes came across to me, and sat on the arm of my chair. He ran his fingers through my hair and smoothed my eyebrows with his thumb.

“What would you like to talk about?” asked he, softly. He leant to kiss the top of my head. I breathed in the pleasure of it.

“Anything but the case,” I smiled up at him, “and anything but Inspector Gregson, who I imagined looked at me most oddly this morning. For a moment I thought I must have the remains of my breakfast stuck fast to my moustache.”

Holmes chuckled. “He has not seen the either of us for a while, it is just his way. Perhaps he was admiring how debonair you looked in that new suit.”

“I would quite rather be out of this suit altogether,” I said, “but I think you would say that it is still too early in the day for such a folly.”

Holmes quirked a smile. “I would indeed. My mind is full of detail and it cannot be distracted. Let me write up my notes and smoke a pipe and think a little, and then later this evening, perhaps.”

“I shall hold you to that, Holmes,” I said.

“You had better,” said he.


	3. Chapter 3

Inspector Gregson came to visit us the following Monday, the 19th. He sat on our sofa and scrubbed despondently at his crop of flaxen hair.

“I don’t know what to make of it, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “it is almost as if the lady never existed, for nobody can tell me anything at all about where she might have gone with that suitcase of hers.”

“Well, before we do anything further I think it would be best to wait until the test results for that stain come back from your lab, Gregson,” said Holmes. “Although if it is blood then it would appear not to be a mortal blow, as the splash was small and there were no others in the vicinity that I could find.”

“Yes, we should hear back from the lab later today, with any luck,” replied the Inspector. “It is a queer business. I am thinking that the marriage must not have been a happy one.”

Holmes lounged in his armchair, head thrown back. “Mr. Dunphy assured me that the marriage was sound, and the brief conversations I had with their staff confirmed this to be the case. The servants all declare that Catherine Dunphy and her husband were cheerful and affectionate towards each other up to and including the evening of her disappearance.”

Gregson raised his hands. “They told you more than they did me, then. I could hardly get a word out of any of them when I spoke to them on the Friday.”

“The natural suspicion of a police inspector’s uniform; I wouldn’t put too much stock into that, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I propose that we each follow our own methods of deduction with this case, then compare results very soon and see where we go from there. If you would update me as regards the stain, however, I would very much appreciate it.”

“I will of course, Mr. Holmes.”

After Gregson had departed, Holmes reached for a telegraph form. “I think I will send a telegram to Mycroft to find out a little more information on our Mr. Thomas Dunphy,” said he. “Watson, my dear fellow, do you think you might head across to Barnes and see if he carries the most recent imprint of _British Birds_? I have searched high and low for my old copy but have mislaid it. It is no doubt languishing somewhere blindingly obvious but fantastically invisible, and that is most irksome to me. Thank you.”

I set off for Barnes the bookseller straightaway, knowing that my friend would be restless until the volume was in his hands. Josiah Barnes had been in our neighbourhood for only a very short while, but in the few months that his Glenworth Street bookshop had existed we had found reason to visit him on almost a weekly basis. He was the most eccentric fellow. Perhaps 60 years of age, with grizzled white hair and side whiskers, he dressed habitually in a dark grey pinstripe with a yellow silk handkerchief peeping from the top pocket, and maintained the nervous habit of tugging fretfully on a small hoop earring in his left ear. His conversation fluttered and hummed like a trapped butterfly. He was also one of the most absent-minded and disorganised fellows I had ever met, and his groaning bookshelves were in a perpetual state of mania. It was in this environment that I now found myself, inhaling the musty air and peering through the gloom towards the owner standing behind his counter.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Barnes,” said I cheerily, “I trust you have been keeping well since we saw each other last?”

“Why, Doctor Watson!” exclaimed he, “it is an honour to see you. Yes, I have been most well, and occupied, and really very busy indeed. So many books! Really so very many of them!”

“Yes, I can see that,” I replied, looking around at the chaos. “My friend Mr. Holmes has sent me on an expedition to track down the latest edition of _British Birds_. Might you have it in stock?”

Mr. Barnes pressed one finger to his lips as his other hand worried at his ear. “Oh well now, I think that I might have it, I really do. But I could not tell you where, you see, because I have had a new consignment stock in this past week, and everything is in even more of a muddle than usual. It really is. But if it is anywhere then it should be over there,” and he pointed away into the furthermost corner, where I could spy a great number of neatly tied bundles of new books sitting awaiting further attention. My heart sank, but I did force a smile onto my face.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes, I will take a look and see what I might uncover there.”

“Good luck, ha ha! Good luck!” said he, chuckling as he lowered himself back down behind his glass top.

I wandered slowly towards the bundles, easing past the outlying crops of children’s annuals and nature books. I almost stumbled over a pile of Encyclopedia Britannica, recovering my balance only just in time. I reached my destination, and began to turn the volumes with their spines to face me to examine the titles. Dickens, Poe, Darwin, _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ … My word, what a jumble.

“Doctor Watson! Why, I certainly did not expect to see you here.”

I twisted around from my stoop and looked up to see Inspector Tobias Gregson looking down upon me with a broad smile. I responded in some surprise.

“Well, I could say the same for you, Gregson. I am looking for a volume for Holmes. _British Birds_.” I explained.

“Very good. I hope you will find it. But how are you these days, Doctor? You are looking very hale, I must say.”

I stood up straight, abandoning my search for the moment. “I am quite well, thank you, Gregson.” I looked at the man curiously, for he appeared to be on the verge of uttering something in addition. “Might I help you with something?” I asked instead.

“Mr. Holmes himself appears very much more cheerful than when I saw him last,” the Inspector continued. “I would almost dare to say ‘happy’ - if that wasn’t such an outlandish word to be bandying around within the same sentence.”

I stiffened imperceptibly. There was an inflection in Gregson’s tone and a slant to his eye which I was suddenly alert to and did not care for.

“We are both well and busy as usual. It is the work which keeps Holmes entertained and cheerful, as you know, Inspector,” said I.

“No doubt, no doubt,” said he. He picked up a seemingly random book from an adjacent shelf, and thumbed through it half-heartedly. “Well, I don’t think I will find anything I fancy here today, Doctor. I’ll bid you a good morning.”

I stared for some moments after his departure, a small icy chill down my back at the thought of what he might suspect, or know. Or it was merely my nervous paranoia of discovery; I could not determine. I turned back to my bookstack. I wrestled with the idea of informing Holmes of this disturbing interlude. I did not know what to do. My triumph was much subdued therefore when I finally, some while later, pulled forth a pristine _British Birds_ in its new edition dust jacket.

~~~~~~~~~

Holmes was most pleased to receive his reference volume. I left him engrossed in it and excused myself to my room. I had not mentioned my brief encounter with Inspector Gregson, for by now I had turned the conversation over so many times in my head I was not sure if I recalled it correctly or not. Had the inference existed at all; perhaps Gregson had merely been making polite conversation. His quiet arrival and immediate subsequent departure from the bookshop did strike me as very odd.

I sat in a brown study for an hour, smoked a cigarette, attempted to nap. I was awakened by Holmes calling to me from the landing. I hastened to my door and looked down at his eager face.

“Watson! We have heard back from Gregson. The carpet stain is most definitely blood. The game is afoot, my dear fellow! Come now, we have work to do.”

I straightened my waistcoat, smoothed down my tie, and descended the stairs to join my friend.


	4. Chapter 4

“You are quiet this evening,” remarked Holmes, looking at me from across the top of his Gustave Flaubert novel. “In fact, you have been reading that one page of your newspaper for the past 30 minutes, and I can hardly think that the agony columns warrant quite that much of your attention.”

I placed my paper beside me. “You are correct, Holmes, I am not reading the paper. I am thinking.”

“Might I ask about what? Our meeting with Mrs. Dunphy’s sister and mother earlier this afternoon?”

I sighed. No, I could not worry him unduly if the imaginings were all in my head. I would speak instead of my other concern. “I have missed you this past week, Holmes.”

Holmes’s expression was confused. “But I have been here.”

“I do not mean in that respect. You have been physically present, but your work is keeping you much occupied and we have had very little opportunity for intimacy. It is that part of us which I miss.”

Holmes leant back and put his hand to his forehead. “Watson, you know that my work is my life. When a case such as this matter with Dunphy presents itself then I feel I must give it my full attention. I always said that I was a brain and the rest of me a mere appendix. That is still true to a certain extent. My dear boy, please know that I am learning every day that I need to adapt and not follow the old path so rigidly. I can only do this by degrees, for such habits are difficult to overcome in a single step.”

He stood then, and held out his hand. “Come to bed.”

“Do you really wish it, Holmes?” I was astonished, for he had never been so forthright.

He huffed in exasperation, and fluttered the fingers of the hand which still extended to me. “Watson, sometimes you are quite impossible. Come to bed. Take me. I could speak in plainer terms but I should not wish to embarrass you.”

I lurched to my feet and grasped his hand. “You would have every right,” said I.

~~~~~~~~~

A perfect body. Dark hairs which I run my mouth over, feel them pull against the grain; I flatten them down wet. A kiss placed in that spot - there - on his inner thigh, makes him moan. I nuzzle it, nuzzle higher, breathe in the scent of him. A kiss to his lower belly. I heard someone speak of that line as ‘the treasure trail’, and it is true. I stroke his sides, dig in with my fingers while I mouth down it, across, up, teasing, not allowing him pleasure too soon. For all his purported reticence he is vocal when it comes to love, and when I am the one giving it. For all of his dominant nature outside of our bedroom, inside he is a different animal: softer, submissive, needing, wanting.

“John, please...”

I smile, and ignore his plea. I look up to see his head crooked back against the pillow, eyes shut and teeth clenched; he wants this. There are things we have not tried yet. Things he will not allow of me. He said he wanted everything, but some things need take their time. We have time.

“Be patient.”

He gasps. He does not want to be patient; that goes against every impulse in his body. He wants to feel my mouth on him. I want it too, but I want this more. I crook my arms under his knees and pull his legs up towards his body. He jerks in surprise; was not expecting that. I hold him there for seconds, looking up into his eyes which are lidded, curious. This is new to him. New data. Data data data. I moisten my index finger. His eyes grow wider. My hand moves down. Down between his legs, down and in, to his fundament. New data.

“John -”

I touch my finger to him, circle it, tease it. He cries out; I have to hush him for fear of us being heard.

“Oh, God - John -”

“Shhh…”

His legs are clamped tight around my shoulders, pulling a sudden stab of pain from my old scar, but I am more intent on this, this beautiful part of him that my finger is tormenting. I take a deep breath; ease the tip of my finger inside him, hold it still. He all but lifts off the bed, lets out a loud cry.

“Is it good, do you like it?” I gasp, “Or would you prefer that I stop? Tell me if it is uncomfortable.”

“Too many damn questions,” he groans, “it feels - I don’t know how it feels. More.”

“We need oil,” I say, and I temporarily withdraw, fumbling in the side cabinet for something suitable.

Holmes is anxious again. “John, I don’t think I’m ready for -”

“I am only going to use my fingers, I will stop if it becomes too much. Try to relax.”

My fingers oiled, I resume our position. I slide my index finger inside him again, further in, slowly twisting, in and out. I gradually add a second finger. He is writhing, panting, losing control of his breathing; he thrusts the back of his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound. With my other hand I am stroking my prick; I do not know how much longer I can last, for the noises he is making are exquisite. I crook my fingers and almost immediately locate the soft nub of his prostate. He bucks, muffles a shout, reaches and takes himself in hand. Two strokes and he is coming to his release, shaking, gasping. I follow him over the precipice. He knows I would follow him anywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~

I awoke a little later than my usual time the next day. I was alone, but heard a faint humming from our sitting-room and so guessed that my friend was already at work. Bathing and dressing hurriedly I made my way down to greet him a good morning. As I entered the room Holmes turned around from his desk and threw me a most wicked look.

“About time, dear boy, about time.”

“I suppose I have missed breakfast,” I said, cuffing him lightly behind the ear as I walked to my chair.

“You have indeed, but I have no doubt Mrs. Hudson would bring up something extra if you asked her nicely. We have heard back from Mycroft, by the way.”

“Regarding?”

“Why, regarding Thomas Dunphy. There is not much to tell. Mycroft met him two years ago at the Diogenes Club, where Dunphy is a member. His business and personal history is clean, he appears in all respects an upstanding citizen, with no obvious enemies or at least none who would wish him or his wife harm. He has a brother who lives out of the country; the majority of his family now is extended from his wife’s side, of which Mycroft knows nothing. So as you see, we learn a little, but not much. I believe I will speak to a few more of the wife’s relatives, I must surely gain more useful information there than our friend Gregson has so far. I wonder if Gregson has had the idea of checking with the ports, in the event that the lady took that route, willingly or otherwise. Hum. I will also return to the house and obtain a photograph. Are you free today, Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes, if you need me.”

“Always,” said he, smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

We were back at the house by 11am. To my dismay, Gregson was in residence with several members of his team, and we watched as they filed in and out, tromping through the flower beds and craning their necks up to Mrs. Dunphy’s first floor balcony.

Gregson marched up to us with a satisfied look upon his face.

“Gentlemen! I am ahead of your game today. I examined the wall of the property nearest the balcony, and what do you suppose I discovered?”

“That the ivy had in places torn away from its roots.” said Holmes. Gregson appeared crestfallen.

“Yes, that exactly, Mr. Holmes.”

“And what does that suggest to you?”

“That clearly no man could have scaled that wall - the ivy could not have supported the weight. I think rather a wild animal - a monkey - or a mischievous child, even. Mrs. Dunphy awoke from her sleep upon hearing the outside disturbance, was much alarmed, wounded herself in her panic to escape, and -”

“And promptly dressed and packed her suitcase before leaving without a word to anyone or any trace,” Holmes concluded, tapping his fingers impatiently upon the door frame. “No, Gregson, that will not do. That will not do at all. I would ask you to consider all the facts before you create your half-baked theories. Are the local zoos missing any of their animals? Why would a child climb such a precarious route? There are ground floor windows which would grant easier access for the opportunistic thief.”

Gregson plucked irritably at a loose thread upon his cuff. “Well, at any rate,” said he, “we are checking the ports, and we are following up our enquiries with the neighbouring properties. It is going as well as it possibly can at the moment with so little evidence.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, and he vanished through the front door without another word.

Gregson looked at me. “Doctor Watson.”

“Gregson,” said I with resolve, “is there something you wish to specifically ask me? I cannot help but feel that there is.”

“Actually, yes, Doctor, there is,” said he, “although I think that it might be perhaps better discussed in private. Let us walk over yonder to the farthest part of the garden where we will not be overheard.”

I followed him, profoundly ill at ease, wondering what on earth the Inspector might be about to say.


	5. Chapter 5

When we had reached a discreet section of the garden, Inspector Gregson turned to me and leant with his back against the oak tree, his arms folded.

“Doctor Watson, I would like you for just one moment to disregard the fact that I am in police uniform. What I say to you now is in the strictest confidence and it will go no further, believe me.”

The air froze in stasis around me. “This has the makings of a very odd monologue, Gregson, but please continue.”

Gregson scuffed the heel of his boot against the tree bark, and looked up high into the branches.

“When I entered the Dunphys’ sitting-room on Friday morning last, you and Mr. Holmes were already in there, talking. I saw you looking at him in such a peculiar fashion, Doctor, it struck me that there was a very great fondness between the two of you, on your part especially. I noticed it again when I called upon you at home yesterday. Now that I think back on it, I had seen it before, but it had not struck me so clearly at those times.” Gregson paused, lowering his gaze back down upon me. “You do realise, do you not, that your regard will never be returned in the way that you might hope it to be? Mr. Holmes surely cares about you as a friend and as a colleague, of that I have no doubt, but he does not retain the emotional capacity to form any intimate bond. I have known him for a greater number of years than yourself, Doctor; I dare say that I can speak with some authority on the subject.”

I did not, indeed could not reply, so taken aback was I by Gregson’s quiet speech. He must have interpreted my silence as mute disappointment, for he then continued, his body language speaking volumes as to his discomfort.

“I am sorry, Doctor. I must ask now if I have misread the situation? This is not an attempt to trap you, please believe me.”

“Gregson, I… do not know quite what to say,” I managed. “I would rather that this conversation had never taken place at all. Might we forget that it ever happened? Why should it have occurred to you to make such a speech in the first instance?”

Gregson moved away from the great oak. He looked back towards the house to ascertain that none of his troop were in the vicinity and that we were well covered by the tree, then he took two steps towards me.

“Because I have long felt an affiliation with you, Doctor. You must understand what I am saying here. Why waste your time on something that can never be, when you could experience fulfilment with something far more tangible?”

“Far more… tangible?”

He reached out a hand and touched the side of my face. I did not withdraw; I felt rooted to the spot with disbelief and alarm. He held his hand there gently for perhaps a few seconds more, before letting it fall to his side.

“Gregson, this is highly inappropriate behaviour,” I stuttered out, looking wildly around to ensure that no-one had seen us.

“You are not repulsed by it, anyhow,” said he. “I apologise, however, if my advance is unwelcome.”

Unwelcome! Surely this was all an hallucination. “I think that I should get back to the house, for Holmes will be finishing up his business there by now.” I made to depart, but Gregson caught my arm.

“Doctor, if you should change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, Gregson, thank you, I must leave now.”

He released me, and I escaped from the stifling confines of his company and the towering oak. As I reached the front door of the house, Holmes emerged, tucking a photograph into the top pocket of his suit. He looked up at my arrival.

“Watson,” said he, coolly, “I was expecting you to join me inside. I have been speaking with Thomas Dunphy and he has provided me with some interesting information. You might not be interested, of course. Let us depart, then.” So saying, he took to the path and headed briskly for the main gate, as I followed behind in a hot fluster.

~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time that Holmes had hailed a hansom and we were on our way again, I had regained much of my composure. I had absolutely no intention of revealing to my friend the nature of the incident beneath the oak tree. I conjured up an horrific visualisation of Holmes landing a powerful upper-cut to Inspector Gregson’s jaw, laying him clean out upon the ground, and I shuddered. Holmes’s temper could be formidable; I did not wish to rouse it, however indirectly. I had let Gregson down as politely as I was able, and now with any amount of luck the matter would blow over. I made a mental note to moderate my reactions to Holmes in future when we were amidst company.

“Where are we off to now, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend peered intently from the cab window.

“I am going to talk with Mrs. Dunphy’s aunt, and possibly her mother once more. The mother did not furnish me with any particular useful information the other day, but now I have new data which I wish to test.”

“Would you like for me to accompany you?”

“It will not be necessary, Watson, it is an interview, not a medical examination. We can travel via Baker Street and let you off there.”

“As you wish,” said I, feeling a little dejected. I sat back in my seat and watched the grey buildings roll by outside. The sky had clouded over and it was looking like rain; I wondered how best I might fill my free afternoon. Within a short while the cab drew up outside 221B and I stepped down, Holmes remaining seated and scribbling absorbedly in his notebook. He called out an address to the cabbie, and they rattled off, leaving me standing on the pavement in something of a quandary. I headed for Glenworth Street, to spend a comfortable hour or two amongst the books and Mr. Barnes’s enduring oddness.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes did not return to Baker Street until late that evening. He was taciturn and morose, giving only clipped responses to my futile attempts at conversation. He declined Mrs. Hudson’s tempting dinner of roast pheasant and retired early to his room, where the lamp remained lit but I could hear no sound from within. This behaviour was not so uncommon with him when he was in the middle of a case. A strand of enquiry prematurely curtailed, or a fruitless day’s research, and he would be in a foul mood for days. I therefore did not disturb his meditation but settled down with a brandy, a pipe, and the new sea novel by one of my favourite authors which I had miraculously unearthed from Barnes’ bookshop that afternoon. I became so engrossed in it that I quite forgot the hour, for when next I looked at my watch it had turned 11pm. As I passed Holmes’s room on my way upstairs I noticed the lamp light still shining through the narrow gap at the foot of the door. I tapped lightly.

“Holmes, are you still awake?”

A few seconds of silence, then a stirring.

“Yes, Watson, I am awake. Goodnight, I shall see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight. Sleep well.” I stepped away softly and made my way up to my own room.

~~~~~~~~~

By 8 o’clock the following morning Holmes had still not emerged from his room, so I prepared him a cup of tea that he might drink it in bed. I knocked and entered to find him sitting up in bed, his head buried in a large black volume with ornate gold lettering on the spine and cover. The air was heavy with the fug of stale smoke. He looked askance at the teacup which I placed on the small table beside him.

“I made you a cup of tea, Holmes,” said I, “I trust you slept well.”

“I did not sleep,” said he, closing the book and tossing it to the end of the bed. “However, I smoked much and I fear the bed sheet may now be slightly the worse for that.”

A series of small cigarette burns now dotted the sheet close to the pillow, and I winced at the sight of them.

“Mrs. Hudson will have words with you about that,” I said, “you are a fire hazard, Holmes. What if you had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in your hand?”

“I would not be so careless,” he replied.

I sat on the bed and stroked his arm. He freed it and reached for his teacup. “Thank you for the tea,” said he.

“Holmes, what is the matter?” I asked in some concern. “Has something happened? Is it to do with the case?”

“It is rather more to do with a quotation of some significance,” said he, pointing to the volume he had discarded. _“And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.”_

“I do not grasp the meaning of it, Holmes,” said I.

“No, I don’t suppose that you would,” he replied, and sipped quietly at his tea.


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes declined to elaborate on either his unusual behaviour or the curious quotation, and I did not press him on either. I returned instead to our breakfast table, buttered a slice of toast and thought back over Inspector Gregson’s declarations of the previous day. The whole affair would certainly make communications with the man decidedly awkward in future, but that could not be helped. I hoped Gregson would not push his intent or behave in a disagreeable manner as one scorned - particularly, as I now contemplated in anxiety, regarding the situation as he saw it between Holmes and myself. I pushed my toast away from me, untouched, my appetite lost.

Holmes had left the photograph of Catherine Dunphy upon the side table, and I picked it up to take a closer look. Mrs. Dunphy was a handsome woman: older than I had originally assumed, perhaps 35, with long hair drawn up and fashioned atop her head, and dressed most elegantly, if somewhat plainly. The photograph framed her from head to waist, and as I examined the background of the room I started in surprise at what I could see in the far corner beyond her left shoulder. I peered closer - yes, there could be no mistaking. I wondered if Holmes had spied it also.

I heard him moving around within his room then. I poured myself a second cup of tea and waited for him to appear. Eventually, some quarter hour later, the door opened and Holmes emerged, the black volume now tucked under his arm. He replaced it upon the bookshelf and came to sit down across from me at the table. He did not appear inclined for discussion, but I was curious as to his progress in the Dunphy case and, more specifically, the photograph I still held in my hand.

“Have you examined this picture, Holmes?” I asked him. He looked across to it briefly, with little apparent interest.

“Yes, it is of Catherine Dunphy. I told you as much yesterday, Watson.”

“But in the background of the picture, Holmes - a bird cage!”

Holmes’s eyes flickered. “It is indeed a bird cage, well observed.”

I began to feel as though my friend was not taking me seriously. “A black bird is sitting within it!”

“Bravo, Watson, a black bird, yes indeed. Do go on.”

“Well, Holmes, surely, I mean, might it be the bird from which that lone feather fell? Did the thought not occur to you?”

“No, the thought did not occur to me, Watson, because that cage bird is not a merle bronze. Merle bronze are not pet birds, they are wild. The bird you see in that picture is a Mynah bird, a breed noted for its exceptional ability to mimic human speech and sounds. Dear me, it is a good thing indeed that you are not in charge of this case, for you would make a greater hash of it than even dear Gregson is managing so far.”

I was stung by Holmes’s disdain. “That is unkind of you, Holmes, for I was only taking an interest in your work and attempting to help you. I see now that perhaps I should not have troubled.”

“Do not exert yourself on my account,” said he, rising from the table with his refilled teacup.

I pulled him back down into his chair. A wave of tea splashed over into his saucer and onto the table cloth, and he cursed.

“Holmes, I would beg you to either tell me whatever it is that I have done, or to get whatever is troubling you off your chest, because you are unbearable this morning. What of your meeting with Mrs. Dunphy’s aunt yesterday? Please talk to me.” I entreated.

Holmes assumed a weary, heavy-lidded expression, and sighed as he commenced his explanation. “From my conversation with Thomas Dunphy yesterday - while you were out in the garden sunning yourself - I learned of his younger brother, Arthur. By all accounts Arthur was considered an astute businessman in his youth, and he made a considerable amount of money overseas in investments of some kind. Thomas and Arthur had not been particularly close as children, and they did not keep in frequent contact as adults - therefore the details that Thomas has regarding his brother’s career are cursory at best. There was an altercation between Arthur and one of his associates; the associate ended up in jail for a number of years - whether because of the altercation itself or from events prior to it, I do not as yet know. Thomas is no longer in contact with his brother, nor was he ever informed as to the name of the unfortunate business associate. Arthur Dunphy had a familiarity with certain relations of his future sister-in-law from various charity connections - all this was several years before Thomas and Catherine had met - and Arthur had been particularly friendly with the aunt. Thus, I visited the aunt to see what she might be able to tell me. She managed to recall the surname of the associate he eventually struck out in business with: Simcox. She could remember nothing more that might be of use to us. So that is where we are now, Watson. And now I should like to drink my tea - or at least, what is left of it.”

“And you believe that the brother is somehow connected in this distressing business, Holmes?”

“I believe that it is quite possible, and it is certainly worth investigating. I will need to carry out some further researches today.”

“And what of the quotation which you recited a little earlier this morning?”

“What of it, indeed,” said he, “you might wish to think about that a while longer. I have a great many things to do today, and quite enough time has been wasted already.”

He stood up from the table finally, and caught up his coat. “I will see you later, Watson,” he said with a nod, and was gone.

I sat there for a few minutes longer. I would have been willing to think further on Holmes’s quotation if I could have remembered it, but it had already slipped from my memory. I supposed that it was somehow related to the case and it was Holmes’s way of prompting me to pay closer attention. I had nothing in particular to do now; the prospect of another empty day without my friend did not seem remotely appealing. When the front doorbell rang then, an hour or two later, it was with considerable eagerness that I leapt up to see who might be paying us a call.

“Good morning, Doctor,” said Inspector Gregson, standing in the doorway, a wary expression upon his face. “I hope I am not intruding.”

If my heart could have sunk any lower than my boots then I am certain that it would have done so.

“Gregson,” said I, maintaining a levelness of tone, “this is quite unexpected. Mr. Holmes is out at present, perhaps you would like to call back later?”

“No, I would not like,” he replied, advancing further into the sitting-room. “I am glad that Mr. Holmes is occupied elsewhere, for it is you with whom I wish to speak.”

“I had thought we had said all that needed to be said yesterday, Gregson. This is an uncomfortable situation for me, I had hoped that you might understand.”

The Inspector had the grace to nod and bow his head, but he seemed disinclined to drop the subject altogether. “I have not been able to stop thinking about you, Doctor,” said he, fingering his hat nervously. “Or might it be that your regard for another has been reciprocated after all?” He looked up then and seemed to scrutinise me. I must have flushed a pretty colour, for his expression turned wolfish.

“Ah,” said he, “I wondered as much. I am more than surprised at that, Doctor. Surprised, and disappointed, I might add. I had hoped I might be in with a chance with you. You would not be up for a bit of sport anyhow?”

“Gregson!” I exclaimed in horror, “You are going too far, I will not tolerate it, nor will I be badgered by such insinuation. I must ask that you leave now, before this becomes embarrassing for us both.”

I opened the door and gestured for him to depart, but he hung back still, a hot look upon his face.

“I wonder, would you say that if you knew what I could offer you, Doctor,” said he with a leer. “It would please you well, I can assure you of that.”

“Please leave!”

“Very well. No doubt you now hold me in a very low esteem, and I admit I deserve it. I have always been hot-headed and for that I must apologise. Please do not speak of this to Mr. Holmes, Doctor, it would put all of us in a most excruciating position.”

“I am aware of that, Gregson. Good day to you.”

I closed the door on his back, and shook out a sigh of anxious relief. I could scarcely believe the nerve of the man. And yet - if I had been unattached, and desperate for another man’s company - who knows what I might have agreed to. And yes, I would likely have enjoyed it; I am flesh and blood, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

After some further time spent with my novel and then on my writings, and failing to make much headway on either, I was relieved to hear Holmes’s key in the downstairs door a little after midday. He entered our sitting-room quietly, removing his coat and crossing to the fireplace for his pipe and tobacco. He did not greet me, nor did he acknowledge my presence in the room.

“Holmes,” I said, “is everything all right with you? How did your research progress?”

He lit his stuffed black clay, and sucked at it in an agitation.

“Never mind the research,” said he, “how about what _you_ have been up to in my absence; I think that we might be better off discussing that, hm?”

My heart plummeted. “I have been here all day, Holmes, I have not ventured -” But Holmes interrupted me impatiently.

“I returned early from my researches this morning, Watson. I made it only to the top of Baker Street before I saw our door open and your visitor take his leave. He appeared quite breathless and red in the face - perhaps from some welcome exercise, who can say? I did not allow him to see me - he crossed the street and headed off elsewhere, and I turned tail and made for the library, where I remained up until this point. I was not in the mood for a confrontation with you then, Watson.”

“Holmes, I swear to you that -”

“What do you swear?” he demanded, slamming his pipe down upon the mantel and facing me in a fury. “What exactly is it that you suppose to swear? What is Inspector Gregson to you?”

“He is nothing, Holmes! Nothing took place between us, he… he wished to speak to me, and we spoke, and then he left, and that was quite all.” I could hear my voice rising in its panic.

“I do not believe you,” said Holmes, softly. He sat down heavily in an armchair. “I saw him touch you, yesterday, in the Dunphys’ garden. You did not push him away. You were talking intimately. He touched you, Watson, and you did not withdraw.” His voice was immeasurably sad, and it almost broke my heart to hear it. He continued then, staring blankly down at the carpet. “Do I not please you? Do I not give you what you need? Tell me what it is - ah, but I think I know. Do you want that so very badly that you would go to others in the meanwhile for your relief?”

“No, Holmes, no - that is not it at all - you have misunderstood the situation. Please…” I moved to his side and touched his shoulder; he flinched. “You are everything to me. You have always been so. I would never betray you, or seek out another when I have you. There is no-one else who could make me feel the way that you do.” I breathed in, deeply. “Gregson approached me and I turned down his advance, Holmes. He persisted, but my reply remained the same. If you cannot believe me on that front, then I do not know what that might say for the level of trust in our own relationship.”

He looked me square in the eye, then, and regarded me for one moment that felt like an eternity.

“Forgive me,” said he, and, jumping up from his chair, all but ran from our rooms. I heard the front door below slam in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes returned shortly before 3 o’clock that same afternoon. I arose from my chair with some trepidation, for I did not know what state of mind he might be in or if indeed he had truly forgiven or believed me at all. His waistcoat now appeared to be missing a button; his hair was wildly mussed. He fixed me with a mad stare, then walked up and grabbed me by my collar. I had no breath to protest as he bundled me back against the nearest wall and slammed me into it. His hands fisted themselves in my hair; his body pinioned me so that I could barely move an inch. I gasped as he lowered his head and clamped his mouth to mine in a raw, passionate kiss.

“I am yours,” he growled, “and don’t you damn well ever forget it.”

I attempted to speak then - as well as I might, for all the air had been sucked out of me, but -

“Quiet, just be quiet,” said he, hardly above a whisper now, as he moved both hands down to my backside, gripping and pulling me into him. Every sound appeared amplified: the rub of cloth against cloth; the swipe of his smooth chin against my cheek; my gasp, his soft words.

“John,” he murmured into my ear, “if you want it, then you have every right to demand it of me, I will not refuse you.”

“I would not wish to force anything of you, my love,” I gasped, “I can wait.”

“You do not have to wait,” said he, “you can crack me.” He drew back, then, and made as if to take my hand.

There was a knock at the door. We sprang apart from each other as though stung, and were on quite opposite sides of the room within a brief second. It took a further moment to hastily readjust our clothing and composure, and only then did I feel able to enquire as to whom might be on the other side.

“It is Mycroft Holmes, Doctor. May I come in?”

I threw a mortified look at Holmes, who was in the process of lighting his pipe by the fireplace and, I think, trying not to laugh. I unlocked and opened the door, and stepped aside to allow the elder Holmes brother entrance.

“Oh dear,” the larger man observed, “I seem to have interrupted something.” He drew his heavy brows together into a frown. “Sherlock, whatever has happened to your waistcoat? You are looking quite reprehensible.”

“Unlike you, dear Mycroft, who never carries a whisker out of place,” replied Holmes, waving for his brother to be seated. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your impromptu visitation?”

“Well, several things… Doctor Watson, please stop hiding behind the bookcase and sit down, you are making me nervous. Hm, yes, as I was saying, Sherlock, there are several reasons. How goes the case with our friend Thomas Dunphy?”

“The strands are gathering, we are likely to apprehend our culprit before the week is out.”

“Is that so! That is very good, Sherlock, I am very pleased. I do trust the lady has come to no harm? Is Dunphy aware of developments?”

“Mycroft, please do not fuss,” said Holmes, “everything is in hand. You know that I cannot stand to give away too much information unless I absolutely must. All will be revealed. Now, what of the other reason for your visit?”

“Really, Sherlock, anyone would think that you were anxious to be rid of me for some unfathomable reason. I would simply like to invite yourself and Doctor Watson to dinner at the Diogenes, perhaps on this Friday evening? I realise that my behaviour towards the pair of you has perhaps been, um hum, remote, shall we say, and I should like to readdress that. You are my only brother, and I do care about you, you know, as much as it grieves me to admit it.”

Holmes glanced across to me; I nodded in response.

“Thank you, Mycroft, we should be happy to accept. Shall we say at 7pm on Friday then?”

“That would be acceptable. My club does prepare the most excellent oysters and grouse. I do hope you will bring an appetite with you, Sherlock, and not push your peas around your plate like a recalcitrant schoolboy.”

“Mycroft, your welcome here is fast growing thin,” said Holmes. “I think three visits in almost as many weeks is as much as my constitution can stand without its beginning to unravel itself. Do you not have appointments elsewhere today?”

I admired how capably Mycroft smothered his indignation at the flippant retort of his younger brother.

“Well, I shall see myself out, then,” said he, rising to his feet and clutching at his coat tails. “By the way, Sherlock, you really should apply some antiseptic to those knuckles of yours, they appear quite chafed. Good afternoon, both.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, after Mycroft had left. “What have you done to your hand?”

“It is an airy nothing,” said Holmes, dismissing it with a flourish, “do not let it trouble you.”

“Well, then, where were we?” I said, as I gathered my friend up in my arms once more, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “That was really the most inopportune moment to be interrupted, I must say.”

“Yes, it was,” chuckled Holmes. He stroked my hair. “I am sorry for ever having doubted you, John. I can hardly conject as from where all these emotions are emerging, still they come all the same, and they muddle my mind. I have never felt so strongly about anything before; I was in the most terrible rage.”

I buried my head in his shoulder. “Perhaps it is best that we do not carry things any further until this case is complete. You need to focus now; I can tell that all this is a great distraction for you.”

He kissed the top of my head fondly. “Soon, John, soon, I promise you that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Thursday 22nd, Inspector Lestrade visited us at 221B. He declined to sit down but rather paced the carpet near the door, frowning the while.

“My dear Lestrade, you are wearing a hole in the rug,” said Holmes, “why ever do you not sit down?”

“It is because of Gregson,” said the little rat-faced man, “he is indisposed today, and I am left to make sense of his scribbled paperwork and attempt to do something with this Dunphy affair. My workload is extreme at the present, Mr. Holmes, I can ill afford anyone on sick leave.”

“Whatever is the matter with Gregson?” I asked.

“He arrived back at the Yard yesterday afternoon much the worse for wear, Doctor. He had been accosted by some young scoundrel who gave him a black eye and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. He has been advised bed-rest for one day. It is all very inconvenient.”

“Never mind all that,” said Holmes, “how are you managing with the details of the case?”

Lestrade threw up his hands in despair. “You should read the notes that I have been left with, Mr. Holmes. A bird feather, a blood stain, a torn ivy, a monkey… what on earth is it all about? It sounds more akin to a Poe fantasy than anything of this earth. What progress have you made with it?”

I listened as Holmes outlined his discoveries to that point. Lestrade paid close attention and scribbled occasionally into his notebook, nodding the while. I admired the man greatly for the respect and accord which he paid to my friend. He was without any doubt the cream of the Scotland Yarders, and would very likely go yet further with his career. I heard him confirm to Holmes that the enquiries at the ports had brought nothing useful to light, and I wondered where on earth the good lady might be at this moment in time. It had been a week since her disappearance; surely the scent must be very cold by now. I had every faith in Holmes’s abilities to successfully conclude the case, however. He had rarely ever failed in all the years that I had known him.

After half an hour of talk I excused myself from their company for a brief while, and made my way outside into the Spring morning. I had a pocketful of coins and a list for some very specific shopping.


	8. Chapter 8

I arrived back at 221B one hour later, laden down with purchases, to find Holmes and Lestrade up and on their way out in a great haste.

“Watson!” my friend exclaimed, “We have a lead on Simcox and we are heading there now. Put down that bag, pick up your revolver and come along with us.”

I stowed away my brown paper bag, loaded my revolver and joined the pair of them on the doorstep. “What is the lead?” I asked.

“Lestrade was kind enough to jog my memory on an old detail regarding the Simcox’s, whom I have been attempting to trace this past 24 hours. They are a family quite renowned on the lower end of music hall. The matriarch lives in a large pile just a 30 minute drive from here -- we must speak with her without any further delay. Come now.”

As our hansom proceeded to clatter its way over the pits and bumps of the London roads, I listened to my two friends discuss further points of the case and all the various possible outcomes. I recalled Holmes telling me of Simcox, the business partner of the younger Dunphy brother, who had met his downfall in a significant prison sentence some years previously. I wondered what his involvement could be in the disappearance of Catherine Dunphy; if she was perhaps a willing participant in recent events after all, or if it was now a matter of murder. My thoughts kept me thus occupied until at last the hansom pulled up to a halt, and we stepped down in front of a large storeyed house set back a short distance from the main road. The area of London we were now in was not so salubrious: untidy, rough characters milled around; stray animals skittered across the road pursued by ragged children. We marched up to the front door of the property and rang the bell. We were greeted by the lady of the house, and upon a short introduction from Lestrade were granted access. Inside the sitting-room, Holmes immediately turned to Mrs. Simcox to enquire as to the whereabouts of her son, Frederick.

“’E’s up and left, sir,” said the lady, “’e ain’t been ‘ome for over a week now. With not a word to any of us, but that’s ‘is way, you see, ‘e just does what ‘e likes. ‘E ain’t a child no more, is ‘e, course we can’t keep a track on ‘im like we used to. What’s ‘e done, then?” She squinted around at us.

“We must locate the gentleman first,” replied Holmes, “and then we might be able to confirm the detail. Please do not worry, no physical harm shall come to him. Can you think of where he might possibly have gone?”

Mrs. Simcox thought for a long moment, distractedly knocking her bony fist against her jawbone. “Well, I can think of only one place, sir. It was a place young Fred always used to like to ‘ang around when he was a youngun’. An old boarding-house - it belongs to our Robert, but he’s left it empty and to ruin for many a year now. It’s a four-storey red-roof on the Golmorton Road, sir. But surely Fred wouldn’t ‘ave holed ‘imself up in there for all this time for no reason? What’s ‘e done?” she demanded again with a scowl. “Are you blamin’ ‘im for summat else now, eh, is that it? ’E ain’t been out of the clink ‘ardly five minutes! Why can’t you coppers leave ‘im alone, eh?”

“Excuse us, madam,” said Holmes, “thank you very much for the information, it could prove vitally important. We might be in touch with you again very soon.”

“Aye, well, don’t trouble yerself on that,” said she, slamming the door on us.

“I’m familiar with that boarding-house, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, as we climbed back into the hansom. “She is right, it has been abandoned for a long while. Occasionally we have trouble there with tramps and the like, and I’m surprised that the place hasn’t burned down before now, but it’s a quiet stretch of road all the same. I imagine if Simcox is there then he won’t have been much noticed.”

“One thing I am confused about, Holmes,” I said, scratching my chin. “If the aunt was only able to recall the surname of young Arthur Dunphy’s associate, how on earth could you be certain of finding the correct fellow?”

“It is elementary,” replied Holmes. “I researched the prison records at Scotland Yard and unearthed a murder case involving a young man by the name of Simcox at roughly the time that Thomas Dunphy informed us. Dunphy’s brother, Arthur, was named as witness to the murder, and I therefore confirmed it as the Simcox we were seeking. I discovered he had been released from prison only very recently - which was in itself most suggestive. I think he is our bird, gentlemen - now if only we can collar him before it is too late.”

We had the hansom stop at the corner of Golmorton Road, and made the rest of the way on foot. The boarding-house loomed tall between the trees on our approach. Lestrade hopped forward into the yard to scan the area and peep warily into the ground floor windows, but he returned to us shaking his head.

“I can see no trace of anyone having been here recently, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “It is quite dark inside. Many of the window panes are cracked and broken. I imagine it would be a most uncomfortable place to stay for any period of time. I think it rather unlikely that Simcox will be here at all, you know.”

“We shall see,” murmured Holmes. He looked up towards the roof and the upper storey windows. He walked around the property, carefully examining the ground as he did so. When he re-emerged at the other side he stepped up to the front door and tested it gently.

“It is locked as I suspected,” said he, “but luckily I have my lock-pick with me and we should have it open in a moment.”

He knelt and proceeded to tinker with the tools. Lestrade and I hung back and looked at each other in silence.

“The place looks deserted, Doctor,” whispered Lestrade, “I feel sure that we are wasting our time here.”

Holmes, meanwhile, had temporarily ceased his attempts with the lock-pick and was now looking intently through the door’s glass panel.

“I can hear a faint cry,” said he, “it is a man’s voice. Quick! The pair of you.”

We rushed to his side as he set to work once more with the picking tools. Within a few seconds the door pushed open, and we edged into the damp, bare hallway. Holmes threw out his arm to halt us.

“Stop!” he hissed. “Listen!”

“Holmes,” I whispered, “it is coming from the staircase - look - the floorboards near the top have given way there. I think that somebody has fallen through them.”

Holmes ran to the far end of the hall where the old staircase curved up towards the first landing. He peered into a dark corner, then turned back and beckoned us to him. We looked down into the dusty gloom and were alarmed to see the small, prostrate figure of a man with a pair of wide, agonised eyes blinking up at us.

“Help me!” he groaned, “I fell through the rotten boards and I must have broken my legs, for I am unable to move them.”

His legs were most painfully twisted. Holmes knelt beside the fellow. “Are you Fred Simcox?” he asked softly.

“Yes, I am Simcox. How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” replied my friend, “and this is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We are investigating the disappearance of Mrs. Catherine Dunphy. Might you happen to know where the lady is being held?”

Simcox dropped his head and grimaced. He looked up at us then, his face gnarled in angry defeat.

“Yes. I have her in a locked room on the top floor of this dump. I never meant her any harm. Here is the key. Be careful of the missing stair.”

He fished a small key from out of his pocket and handed it to Holmes, who was away up the staircase before we could draw breath.

“Take care,” he shouted down to us, “the boarding is indeed very precarious here if you are behind me.”

Lestrade secured a pair of handcuffs upon our man, while I set out to follow Holmes. When I arrived at the top landing I found the door at the end of the corridor already open. Inside, Holmes was taking care of Mrs. Dunphy, the poor lady quite weak and distressed but, thank heavens, very much alive and unharmed. I tended to her briefly, then between us we escorted her down the stairs and into the hansom which was brought around for us. Upon promising us back-up officers within minutes, Lestrade set off in the carriage with the lady, and Holmes and I returned to the recumbent Fred Simcox.

“Well, what a pretty mess, Simcox,” said Holmes. “Those legs of yours need attention. I am anxious to hear your story, but I fear that must wait until we can get you to the hospital and have your injuries attended to. I should tell you now, however, that the lady’s husband was not the man you were seeking.”

Simcox looked at us both in contempt. “Why, of course it was he! Dunphy! I would know that face anywhere. Would you take me for a fool?”

“Mrs. Dunphy’s husband is named Thomas. Thomas Dunphy has a younger brother, almost identical in appearance, named Arthur. I believe Arthur Dunphy to no longer be living in this country. He has not made contact with his brother in some time.”

A flash of horror passed across Simcox’s face. “My God, do you mean to tell me that I have tormented the wrong man and all for naught?”

“Yes, that would appear to be the case. What was it all for? Money? A kidnapping, a ransom?”

“Yes, it was that, but you do not know the full story. I am a man hard done by, and Arthur Dunphy was the man who did me in and was the cause of my downfall. I will say nothing more right now; my legs pain me, I have had no food or drink for days.”

“Neither has the poor lady whom you incarcerated in that pitiful room, Simcox. Nevertheless, I can hear our officers outside now and you will be transported out of here very shortly. Tomorrow, when you are more recovered, we will expect you to loosen your tongue for us. And now! Here is the stretcher, and away you go.”

Holmes and I stood by as Simcox was lifted onto the stretcher and carried from the house. Holmes spoke at some length with the attending officers, and then we too were on our way in a hansom, headed home to Baker Street.


	9. Chapter 9

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade, a cheerful smile upon his face, as he opened the door of the hospital room and bid us both enter. “I am very glad that you are early, so that we can commence this interview. The amount of paperwork I have to get through today, Mr. Holmes! It is a crime all by itself. Yes, Mrs. Dunphy is much improved today, you will be happy to hear, and her husband is overjoyed at her safe return. And here is Mr. Simcox for us. Now over to you, if you would care to take the weight.”

“Thank you, Lestrade,” replied Holmes, as we drew up chairs to the bedside and surveyed our plastered captive. “Good morning, Simcox, how are those legs of yours today?”

“They are terribly painful for me,” complained the fellow, “but at least I still have them, and at least I haven’t been treated as you might do a horse with the same affliction.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Now please, if you are feeling quite up to it, and you have your water glass there, perhaps we might hear your story. Watson, I trust your pencil is poised.”

Fred Simcox adjusted himself against the pillows, looked at each of us in turn, and then began to speak.

“I first met Arthur Dunphy way back in 1870, when we were both young men, boys, still, almost. Dunphy was full of bright business schemes and ways to make his fortune. I liked his thinking, and so I joined up with him in whatever he might care to turn his hand to. After a few years of this and that, my mate became attracted to the gold rush then taking off in the Brazils - so much gold to be had! We travelled to Ouro Preto, a city in the state of Minas Gerais. Torry - that was how Arthur liked to be called, for he did not care for his given name - Torry and I worked away for a while and discovered a rich vein of gold deposit in the mountain regions there. Too much gold, in fact, for my mate became greedy. When we had mined all we could with our limited resource, he took to his heels with the whole of the treasure, leaving me high and dry there without a penny. I suppose he thought I’d give up, stay on there, find another partner. Well, instead, I chased him back to London, I did. I caught up with him, too. Threatened him, demanded my share of the gold. He had a buddy with him - his pal got caught in the middle of our argument, and I knifed him dead without hardly thinking about it, so angry was I then. Of course I was arrested and thrown in jail for it. Ten long years, Mr. Holmes. When I finally got out, not long ago now, I swore revenge on Torry. He had moved out of his old digs, so I searched around. I still had an old photo of the two of us, and showed it around to people. Well I finally struck lucky, and someone recognised his face and the name. Torry… Tommy… I suppose those names might sound alike if you’re half deaf, such as the old fool I spoke to. He pointed me towards the wrong Dunphy, didn’t he, and I ended up there, watching from a distance, full of rage because I could see the fortune in his house and grounds, and his happiness with his wife. Aye, I had that much jealousy and hatred boiling within me.

“So to my mind, it was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Torry had taken what was dear to me and rightfully mine, so I would do the same to him. I’d take his fine lady wife and hold her to a ransom, and see how he liked it then. Make him suffer a bit, and get a load of money out of it too. So I kept watch on the house, figured out that the lady used the bedroom at the front balcony, and made my plans. I had found an insecure ground floor window, but I didn’t use that, no, because I didn’t know the layout of the house, see. So I climbed up the ivy late that night - I am small, and with some amateur acrobatic training from my childhood, so it came easy to me - and lucky me, that balcony door was unlocked. I threatened the lady with my gun, told her to get dressed and to come with me. I saw jewels and rare things lying about - bring them too! I told her. I made her pack them into a case. Then she gets sassy and stabs me with a hatpin, so there’s me dripping blood now, and dealing with a madwoman. Funny how she didn’t scream, though, she was mostly quiet through the whole thing. Still, I swabbed at her face with a chloroformed rag and that made sure she wouldn’t squeal. I had an old Brazilian souvenir I’d brought with me: a bird feather, which I left behind as a warning to my old friend so that he might know what to expect next. Make him sweat a bit. I somehow got the lady down the stairs, case and all - I should’a planned that a bit better, we might have been caught at any time - shoved her through the window, and into a carriage I had waiting for me. Don’t go looking for the cabbie, Mr. Holmes, he’s a pal but he didn’t know what was going on there, I brought her out and he just thought she’d had her share o’ the drink, you see what I’m saying?

“Anyhow, we ended up at the boarding-house, where it was my intention to wait it out for a couple of days before making contact with Torry. But I met my accident on the stairs, and then you came along and told me I’d sniffed on the wrong scent, and so here we are now.”

“My word,” said Holmes, “that was a tangled web you wove there, Simcox. How on earth did you manage with carrying a chloroformed lady down a flight of stairs and through a window?”

Simcox flashed a bitter smile. “Aye, well, you can’t have been paying proper attention, Mr. Holmes. Acrobatic training. You never forget what you’re taught, you know, with lifts and such. And I’m a strong fellow still.”

“The pleasures of the music hall do yet elude me,” replied Holmes, rising from his chair. “Do you have everything you need there, Lestrade?”

“I do most certainly, Mr. Holmes,” said our friend Lestrade, beaming from ear to ear. “What a story! I almost wish that we could catch up with that Arthur Dunphy fellow and hear his side of it as well.”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Holmes, dryly. “Watson and I will be otherwise occupied this weekend, I think. We shall leave you now, then. Good morning!”

“Otherwise occupied, you say, Holmes?” I said softly to my friend, when we were standing outside in the empty hospital corridor once more.

“My dear Watson, surely you must know by now that I always keep my promises,” said he.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I was fastening my tie in my own room later that evening when Holmes entered, already fully dressed, his hair sleeked and shining. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, nuzzling his nose to the back of my neck.

“I rather wish that we did not have to attend this dinner with brother Mycroft,” he sighed. “It is delaying the inevitable most cruelly.”

I twisted around to face him, still fumbling with my bow. “Holmes,” I said warningly, “unless you would wish to see me do battle with a cockstand all the damn evening, then I would suggest that you remain quiet on this subject until our return tonight.”

“You want it,” he teased me, tipping my chin.

“Yes, I do want it,” I said, laughing now, for his eyes were so beautiful and ablaze with life and love. “You have no idea just how much.” I took a couple of deep breaths. “There, I am calm now. Take your hands off me and behave, Sherlock Holmes, otherwise your evening dress may end up quite ripped and ruined.”

Holmes stood back and tucked his arms behind him, contrite. “I am sorry,” said he, not looking at all like it, “but you cannot imagine how delightful you look right at this very instant. I am flat on my back in my mind’s eye already.”

“Out!!” I slammed the door on him, but could hear him chuckling to himself halfway down the staircase. I mopped my forehead. This was likely to prove an interminably long evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doctor, do help yourself to another oyster,” trilled Mycroft Holmes, two hours later.

We were all three of us seated around a discreet corner table in the Diogenes’ restaurant. Mycroft was in his natural habitat; he was almost jovial, his great whiskers trembling with enthusiasm as he poured us generous glasses of Muscadet and proposed we drink a toast.

“To oysters, that the world may one day be overrun with them,” said Holmes.

“Sherlock, that is quite the worst toast I ever heard,” his brother reprimanded. He raised his glass. “To friendship, prosperity, and good health!”

“These oysters are really most excellent, Mycroft,” said I. “The wine harmonises them perfectly.”

“A fine Muscadet is the ultimate accompaniment, my dear boy,” said he. “I am looking forward particularly to the grouse main course; the chef prepares it so splendidly, you see.”

I nodded, then started at the gentle touch of a boot tip nudging its way slowly up my trouser leg. I darted a look at Holmes, to see him smirking as he sipped delicately at his wine. The boot persisted, rubbing up and down my bare shin, insinuating itself around to my calf. The room was suddenly unbearably warm. I moved my limb out of harm’s way and desperately tried to clear my thoughts. Holmes did not react; he had engaged in a conversation with his brother and was appearing to quite ignore me now. I felt reprieved for only the barest of moments when the boot returned - this time to my other shin. It worried at my stocking; it zigzagged and tickled. It was then, finally, that I retaliated with a sly boot of my own. Thus it was that Holmes and I acted out our exquisite under-table foreplay, utterly oblivious to the rest of the world around us.

As the evening drew to its close, Mycroft pushed his cleared dessert plate away from him, wiped his lips on a cloth napkin and sat back in his chair, eyeing the pair of us.

“We cannot choose with whom we fall in love,” he said quite suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“I myself have chosen a solitary life,” he continued, smiling softly. “It suits me, and I am content enough with it. But I can only imagine the desolation of falling in love with someone, and for that love to be mutual, but for it to be seen by those in a position of authority as a crime worthy of punishment. To be compelled to hide away, to lie, or otherwise deny yourself a chance of happiness. A soul might be destroyed. To take that greater stand, therefore, is a courageous act indeed. I see that only now, whereas my blinkered eyes could not before. I learn a little every day, and I suppose that to be a good thing.”

Mycroft smiled at us both, then.

“But now, Sherlock, for mercy’s sake, please stop playing with that wretched fruit pastry and actually _swallow_ a spoonful, there’s a dear boy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our sitting-room was bathed in dark shadows when we returned to it much later that evening. My nerves were jangling. I wondered what might be going through Holmes’s mind, for he seemed very cool and ordered, neatly putting away his coat and placing his hat upon its stand. Then he turned to face me, and I saw those wide grey eyes, aroused, still anxious all the same now that the moment had arrived. We did not light the lamps. Holmes held out his hand, and without any words - for none were needed now - we ascended the stairs to my bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

My room is cool; I had left the window ajar earlier in the evening and had forgotten to close it. I do so now, and draw the curtains. Holmes moves towards the bed and begins to undress, his back to me. I stand and watch him, for I adore these seconds as his layers of clothing remove piece by piece, to reveal, so gradually, that beautiful body. He is not so very self-conscious anymore; he will walk around our bedroom in the nude without any attempt to conceal himself. He has nothing to be ashamed of, I love every inch of him. He is stripped down to his underwear now and I can wait no longer; he hears my approach and turns with a smile. I reach out and stroke his chest; rub the hard nub of a nipple, and circle the mound of a breast with the palm of my hand. His breathing quickens, I can see the slight bulge between his legs now but I do not touch him there yet, no, not yet.

I kiss him, on his chin.  
I lick him, on his mouth. He hums.  
I kiss the tip of his nose. A smile.  
My fingers draw through his hair, pulling it free of the brilliantine, shaking it rough and loose.  
My tongue enters his mouth, he accepts it, brings his own forward to meet mine. A waltz in some lustful tilt. I think I moaned; I am certain that he did. His hands reach to my face, he smoothes them down over my neck, shoulders, arms. We are so close now that his erection is pressing into mine. We are pushing into each other, gently rutting, enjoying the sensation.

“Undress, John,” he whispers. “I want to see you.”

I strip down. I remove my underwear, my prick jumps out, hard, wet at the tip. My God, I want him! I am aching for him. A sweet pain.

Holmes is naked. His prick is full, it sways obscenely as he makes to sit on the bed. He eyes me. He shifts further, lays down on his back, his head against the pillow. He crooks his knees and parts his legs very slightly. He is hard now against his belly, his dark pubic mound stark against the pale white of his flesh. The curve of his backside against the sheet will send me into a delirium. I lay down beside him - not on him, yet, see how patient I am being with our pleasure. I cradle his prick, rub the crown with my thumb, he hisses through his teeth. I adore how he submits to me, will allow me anything now. We kiss again, a growing want. I move on top of him - cannot wait any longer, ah, I see I am not so patient after all - and prop myself up on my arms, pressing my lower half into him. He gasps, and clutches blindly at my buttocks.

“Now, do it now,” he moans.

“So impatient,” I chuckle. “I need to prepare you, my love.”

I reach for the small bottle of oil, and apply it to my fingers. Holmes is lifting up his legs for me already; he is familiar with this at least, and welcomes it. I rub my fingers around his tight entrance, and listen to the sounds he is making. Tiny whimpers. I don’t think I could be any harder, even if a genie materialised to grant me three wishes. I gently insert a finger, and slowly twist it, stretching, readying him. Whimpering. A second finger, scissoring. I am pumping him gently with two slick fingers and he is trying to stop himself from crying out.

“John, _now_ , please, oh please…”

Now. I oil my prick liberally, for I do not wish to hurt him. I fear how painful this might be for him. I will go slowly.

I push his legs up further, and slide a pillow under his rump. He is holding onto the metal bedhead almost as though to stop himself from levitating. I move the tip of my prick to his hole, place pressure to it, willing it to relax and allow me entrance. I feel the first inch slip inside. Holmes cries out. In pain? Not quite pain. I pause. His breaths are jagged.

“More.”

“Am I hurting you? Please tell me.”

“A little, not much. More.”

I push in further; the sensation is intense, the heat, the feel of him.

“Stop.” He is wincing, eyes tight shut. Knuckles white on the bedhead. I wait, fighting back the overwhelming impulse to keep pushing into him. Eventually: “More.”

A little further in, further, further. He is gasping, writhing, not in any obvious pain now.

“How does it feel?” I ask, between pants.

“Tight,” he manages to chuckle. “John, I think you could move faster now if you wanted to. I want you to.”

I push into him all the way, up to the hilt. He groans loudly. I withdraw a little, and push back in. Ah, it feels so good. Holmes is moaning continuously now. I withdraw and thrust again, begin to pump him in earnest. Long, deep thrusts, I can’t hold back, I’ve waited so long for this, I have to have him. I ram into him again and again, he cries out in sharp pleasure as I make contact, over and over. The bed is protesting, the headboard is banging against the wall; we are making an unholy noise, and I thank heaven that we are on the top floor tonight. I am close to my finish already. Holmes takes himself in hand and strokes off. My thrusts become erratic, shorter, deeper, harder; I am growling in my want for release. And then I come, inside him, finally. Holmes throws back his head, yells, reaches glory also. We freeze, as if to pull every last fragment of pleasure that we might from this. And I can hold myself up no longer; I collapse across him, breathless, laughing, ecstatic. He strokes my hair, laughs into my ear, kisses my face.

“That was so very much better than I had anticipated,” he huffs, “no, don’t look like that, my boy, you know how utterly I adore you. The act had never appealed to me particularly, in theory, but in the practice, with you, I find it is quite sublime.”

“I am very glad,” I say, as I withdraw gently and lay down again by his side. “Some things are worth waiting for, don’t you think?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Early Sunday morning, 25th April. Holmes and I were still abed at 8am; he sprawled lazily across me reading one of my old yellow-backs, while I lay and happily daydreamed. How I loved our leisurely weekends now, with nothing to do but love, talk, read and smoke. This Sunday was special: I had planned it several days in advance, and now the time had arrived to surprise my beloved. I hauled myself out of our bed and trotted over to the wardrobe. Holmes stirred and grabbed at me.

“I am not about to dress,” I told him, “I have something for you.”

“A gift?” He eyed me suspiciously. “It is not my birthday.”

“No, but it _is_ Easter Sunday. I thought we might celebrate it.”

I picked up the bundle of items that I had purchased earlier in the week and had prepared so painstakingly. I placed them now on the bed in front of Holmes and smiled widely at him. “Happy Easter, my love!”

Holmes regarded the wicker basket with apprehension.

“It is a basket,” said he, his eyebrows converging.

“Yes, it is. Look inside it.”

He prodded and poked around, and brought out the contents, one by one:

A brightly coloured postcard, with a drawing of a rabbit surrounded by yellow daffodils.  
A small bouquet of fresh lilies.  
A bag of milk chocolate eggs.  
Hand-blown eggs decorated with paints derived from cranberries, beets, spinach greens, and orange and lemon peelings.

“You have gone quite mad,” said Holmes, surveying the crowded bedspread.

“I thought you might enjoy the lilies,” I explained, “they are beautiful: a symbol of purity and virginity, did you know?”

“Well, it is a bit late for that now, old boy,” chuckled my friend. “I believe I am well and truly deflowered and there can be no reversal of the fact.”

I laughed at him. “At any rate, you can display the postcard, and eat the chocolate eggs. What you might wish to do with the painted eggs is quite up to you.”

“Thank you,” he said, very touched, I think. “No-one has ever bought me an Easter gift before. I wasn’t expecting it. I have nothing to give you in return, I am afraid.”

“You have given me so many things already,” said I. “Look, I have this also.” I produced a long peacock feather from behind my back.

“For… tickling?” he smiled.

“A feather placed to a sensitive area of the body can be most erotic,” I informed him.

“It sounds pornographic to me.”

“On the contrary,” said I, waving it at his midriff. “Erotica is using a single feather. Pornography would be using the entire peacock.”

\- END -


End file.
